The silence was different now. Not empty. Not tense. It was warm. Full of unsaid things that didn't need to be solved. For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like I owed him a performance. There was no choreography here. Just the honesty of closeness.
"I think I'm scared of being loved," I said into the ceiling. "Because if someone loves you… you can't hide anymore. You can't lie about being okay. They'll see through it. And then what?"
"Then maybe they'd stay anyway."
I looked at him. He wasn't looking back. But his words settled into my bones like rain on thirsty earth.
"Do you think that's what this is?" I asked. I shouldn't have.
He didn't answer. So I didn't press.
That wasn't what tonight was about. It wasn't about defining anything. It wasn't about peeling open wounds and naming the ghosts inside. It wasn't about tracing the lines between want and fear and trying to make sense of where they crossed.
It was about this. Two hands, reaching without demand. Two hearts, bruised but beating. And a lamp that kept glowing, as if it knew.
"Do you think we'll talk about this tomorrow?" I asked after a while.
He closed his eyes. "Probably not."
I nodded. "Okay."
"Is that okay?"
"Yeah."
I lied.
Another silence came. This one was softer. Like a feather settling over the bruise.
He turned his head toward me finally, eyes half-lidded, lashes casting soft shadows down his cheeks as he laid us down onto the soft bed.
We stayed like that for hours. Maybe longer. Neither of us slept. Neither of us moved much. We didn't talk about the mango juices. We didn't talk about the kiss. We didn't talk about the way our hearts had once leaned too far forward and fallen into the same space.
We didn't need to. Or at least, I tried to tell myself that.
That night, the language we spoke wasn't one of words, but of breath and proximity. Of shared stillness and unspoken safety. My head found his chest. His fingers threaded through mine.
When I closed my eyes, I wasn't hiding. I wasn't curled in the dark, waiting for storms to pass. I wasn't pretending that silence meant safety.
I was beside him.
Just for tonight.
Just like this.
I woke to the weight of breath.
Slow. Measured. Not mine.
The light was golden, leaking through the edges of the curtain in strips and sighs. The kind of morning that arrived with silence instead of song, the kind that lingered between the bones of a headache like a promise of repentance. It wasn't bright enough to hurt, not yet, but I felt pain blooming behind my eyes anyway.
I was warm. Unreasonably so. My cheek rested against something soft.
My eyes fluttered open, and I remembered.
Haneul.
I shifted. Not enough to wake him, just enough to look at him.
There he was, still fast asleep beside me. His arm loosely curled beneath his head, lashes feathered like ink across his cheeks. His lips were parted, just slightly, and I watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, like he had been carved from the quiet of the dawn. A still life in my bed.
I hadn't meant for this.
Not like this.
And yet… nothing had happened, not really. Not in the way others might assume. No kisses stolen past consent, no tangles of breath and skin. Just silence. Just comfort. Just the echo of my heart finding his and staying there, for one night.
But guilt was already curling its fingers around my ribs.
He looked so soft in the morning light. So untouched by the weight of what the world demanded. And all I could think was how undeserving I was of this moment.
The way he slept so close, like I hadn't been cruel. Like I hadn't flinched from his kindness because it felt like a mirror I wasn't ready to look into.
Shame crept in slowly. It always did. Not a scream, not a slap, just the cold sting of remembering who you were when you weren't at your best.
And last night, I had not been at my best.
Last night had been a kind of mercy. A quiet one. He hadn't demanded explanations or apologies.
He'd only offered silence and a place for me to breathe. And I took it. Greedy. Grateful. Guilty. Now, in the fragile stillness of morning, I felt like a thief.
I didn't want him to wake up and find me still watching him like that. Like he was beautiful, like he was a secret I'd finally let myself remember. Even if he was.
I sat up slowly, wincing as the ache in my skull tightened. My head throbbed with every movement, each felt like I was being rung like a bell. Morning-after hangovers. Maybe Sejun was right, I had drunk a bit too much last night.
I found him in the kitchen, barefoot and unbothered, standing over the stove like he had been born to belong in every domestic moment I could imagine. His shirt was wrinkled and slightly askew, hair an unkempt halo of soft waves from the night before, and even with the faint shadows under his eyes, he looked… annoyingly good. He looked like he just woke from a dream you weren't invited into.
Of course he did.
His eyes lifted just as I crossed the threshold. He blinked slowly, then smiled—sleepy and golden, like sunshine peeking over rooftops after rain.
"Well, good morning, princess of shame," he greeted, voice hoarse but warm. "You look like you've been run over by your own choices."
I groaned, dragging myself toward the counter. "I feel like I kissed asphalt and it kissed back."
"Hangover?"
"A legendary one."
He chuckled and reached for the ceramic mugs beside the kettle. "Perfect timing. I was just about to bring this to your room."
The word room rang a little too loudly in my ears. And then I remembered Haneul. Still asleep. Still curled beneath my sheets like something precious I'd accidentally kept too close.
"...I'll just drink it here," I said quickly. "It's fine. No need to... bring anything upstairs."
He raised an eyebrow but didn't press. He was good at that-knowing when to ask, and when not to. "Suit yourself. Though I'll admit I had this whole prince-brings-the-damsel-healing-elixir moment planned. You ruined my debut."
"I'll live with the guilt."
"I hope so. I made the good stuff."
The kettle whined. He poured.
The scent of ginger bloomed into the air-sharp, sweet, grounding, like homecoming. He added a spoonful of honey and a squeeze of lemon, stirred, and placed the mug in front of me with a flourish.
I wrapped my fingers around it instantly, grateful for the heat and something solid.
Sejun walked closer, nursing his own mug, his eyes flickering over me with more fondness than teasing now.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
I nodded. Then stopped. Then sighed. "No. Yes. I don't know. I guess I feel... ashamed."
He hummed. "About last night?"
"About everything."
He didn't respond right away. Just took a slow sip of tea, his expression thoughtful. I watched the rise and fall of his chest, the way his collar dipped loosely, revealing the elegant slope of his collarbone. Even hungover, even rumpled, he looked like the kind of man someone would write poems about.
Which was annoying, because I did not need any more poetry this morning.
"Don't be ashamed," he said finally. "You're not a villain in your own story, Aureal. You're just figuring it out like the rest of us. "You've been afraid," he whispered. "That's not the same thing."
I looked down at my tea, ashamed of the way his words made me want to cry again.
He didn't press. Didn't smother me with comfort or questions. He just... stood up, rounded the table, and leaned against the counter beside me.
His head rested against mine, his breath warm near my ear. He smelled like ginger and last night's cologne.
"I'm hungover too, you know," he said with a grin.
I smiled weakly. "You don't look it."
"That's because I'm naturally radiant," he replied, mock-serious. "Even my suffering's attractive."
I laughed. He always seemed to take the weight off of my shoulders.
He chuckled too, and then, without warning, he slid closer. His arms wrapped around my waist, loose and warm, and he rested his head against mine.
I tensed. Then melted. Then, I leaned into it. Let his touch anchor me.
His voice, when it came, was a murmur just for me.
"You know," he whispered, "when I sold my soul, I wasn't expecting all this."
"Didn't expect a hangover?"
"No, all of you."
I kept myself quiet.
"I thought I was trading everything for silence. For numbness. For the absence of ache. I didn't know I'd end up here, drinking ginger tea in a kitchen that feels like home, wrapping my arms around someone who makes me feel-"
He paused.
"Alive." He nodded against me. "New. Like the past doesn't own me anymore. Like maybe, I could've been someone better if I'd had this back then."
I let my hands rest over his. They were steady. Solid. Sejun always felt like someone who could carry things. Even things that weren't his to carry.
"Well, I don't think you could've had this back then. I was still a minor when you died." I said quietly, trying to lighten the mood. "My parents would never let me befriend an adult, especially not a man, and especially not during the pandemic."
"Well, we met as adults, so, nothing illegal here." he smirked, squeezing my waist. "I guess I don't regret dying, since I met you. You gave me a second chance at life."
And that was it
That was the morning.
The tea cooled between our fingers, the kitchen filled with light. Haneul was still upstairs, dreaming perhaps of things he didn't say. I sat in an air of quiet beside Sejun, warm and hungover and ashamed, but also... not alone.
Sejun's fingers ghosted the rim of his mug, the pad of his thumb following the line like it was a memory he could trace into permanence. I could feel him watching me in the silence between us, even as his head leaned gently against mine, his arms snug around my waist like I was a keepsake. Like I was a small, breakable truth he'd vowed not to forget.
And maybe that was the strangest thing. That despite the wine-stained night and the ghosts that followed us into morning, neither of us moved. The kitchen was honey-warm from the light slanting through the windows. Somewhere above us, footsteps stirred faintly in the upper hallway—one of the others, maybe Seungyong, maybe Daeho, maybe even Haneul—but they didn't come down.
We had this moment to ourselves. This hush.
Then, with a reluctant breath and a small groan, Sejun pulled back just enough to look at me. His hair was a silky storm, tousled from sleep. His eyes were soft but clear now, the hangover mellowing to a dull throb, like a tide pulling back from shore.
"I should probably get ready," he murmured, not moving yet. "Can't be late."
"Wait… you're going in?" I frowned, setting my cup aside. "Can't you work from home? I mean, you're in marketing. Just send them an aesthetic slide deck and call it a day."
Sejun chuckled, the sound low and scratchy, rumbling pleasantly in his chest. "I already burned through my leaves when we were looking for you. Ghosted them for nearly a week. Technically I'm not even supposed to be alive at this point. HR probably thinks I fell into a ditch or joined a cult."
I felt my chest twist at that, how quietly he said it. How matter-of-factly he mentioned spending all their time off searching for me like it was just a thing anyone would do.
"Well, I'll just be staying here today." I said softly, standing with him. "Work from home. You go first. I'll wait."
He looked at me for a long breath, like he wanted to say something. Then, with a lopsided smile, he reached out and tapped his knuckle gently against my forehead. "Well, I hope you'll do dinner tonight then. If I get home early though, I'll definitely be around to help."
I watched him retreat down the hallway, scratching the back of his neck with one hand, his bare feet silent against the floorboards. A soft ache bloomed under my ribs.
The house was quieter now. The world didn't feel like it was punishing me yet. It was just letting me sit in this small space of reprieve. Letting me feel what it was like to be wanted without being devoured.
I sank into one of the kitchen chairs and cradled the mug again, even though the tea had gone cold. I pressed it to my lips anyway, not for warmth, but memory.
The last mouthful of Sejun's tea had been sweeter than the rest, the ginger's bite softened into something almost tender by the time I finished it. It went down slow, warm enough to loosen the knot in my throat, sharp enough to remind me my body still ached from last night's mistakes. My stomach had accepted it reluctantly, as though it didn't trust me not to ruin it again. When I set the mug down, the faint tap against the table sounded louder than it should have. Mornings had a way of amplifying every small noise—the creak of a chair, the distant hum of the refrigerator, even the faint sound of my own breath between thoughts.
The climb upstairs felt longer than it should have. My head was heavy, and every step seemed to reverberate faintly in my skull. A narrow shaft of light spilled in through the stairwell window, catching dust in its path. The particles moved in slow, lazy spirals, as if gravity was something they could choose to obey. I envied them for that.
At my door, I hesitated. My hand rested on the cool brass handle, grounding me for just a breath before I turned it.
The air inside felt different. Warmer, heavier. The kind of stillness you could feel against your skin. It wasn't just the temperature—it was the quiet rhythm of another person's breathing, deep and steady.
Haneul was still there.
The covers had shifted lower, gathered loosely at his waist. His shirt clung in soft folds, and in the dim light, I could trace the slow lift and fall of his ribs. One arm was stretched toward the edge of the bed, palm open, fingers curled slightly as though holding something invisible. The other was tucked beneath the pillow, pressing his face into it in a way that softened all the edges I'd grown used to.
I told myself I should move. Cross the room, grab my phone, return to my side of the bed without looking. But instead, my eyes stayed on him.
There had always been a kind of gravity to Haneul when he was awake, an unspoken pull beneath every word, every movement. But asleep, that gravity shifted. The sharp edges were gone, replaced by something quieter, deeper—like the ocean at low tide, power drawn inward, leaving behind a beauty that felt almost private.
His hair was a mess, strands falling over his forehead in a way that would've made him scowl if he were awake. One lock fluttered faintly with each exhale. His lashes were longer than I'd realized before, their shadows fragile against his skin. Even his mouth—so often shaped into a smirk or a measured line—was different now, parted slightly in sleep.
The throb in my head was still there, but it seemed further away now, as though my body had decided to quiet it so I could stand here in this moment a little longer.
It was dangerous, I thought, how safe it felt just to watch him breathe.
And even then, I wasn't sure if I wanted him to wake, or if I hoped he'd stay in dreams forever.
From this angle, I could see the faint crease his pillow left against his cheek, the small unevenness in his breathing that meant he was somewhere between deep sleep and drifting toward waking. I could almost imagine him opening his eyes, catching me there, and the image made something twist in my stomach.
His breathing deepened again, and I realized he wasn't waking after all. I let my gaze wander—over the slope of his shoulder, the faint twitch of his fingers, the way his hair caught in the pillowcase. Small things. Unremarkable things. And yet, I knew I'd remember them.
The room was quiet enough that I could hear the faint tick of the clock on the desk. It was an almost fragile sound, steady but thin, like it might break if the air moved too quickly. I stayed still so it wouldn't.
My fingers curled against my knee, resisting the urge to touch him. Not because I thought he'd wake—though that was part of it—but because I wasn't sure what would happen to me if I did. Touch was a dangerous thing; it had a way of making everything else louder.
The hangover swayed in and out of focus, the pain behind my eyes fading into something that felt almost like drowsiness. My body seemed to think the solution to all of this was to close my eyes, to tip sideways into the space beside him. And maybe it was right.
I let myself ease down—not fully, not under the covers, but enough that my shoulder brushed the edge of the blanket—and from there, I could see the small curve of his ear, the faint shadow where his jaw met his neck. His scent reached me; faint, clean, with a thread of something warmer underneath, like the way sunlight smells after it's touched skin.
I breathed it in before I could stop myself.
I closed my eyes for a moment—not to sleep, but to steady myself. And in that darkness, I listened. To his breathing. To the clock's thin ticking. To the sound of my own pulse slowing, matching his without meaning to. It felt like the kind of moment you couldn't explain to anyone else without losing it entirely in the telling. Something private, unremarkable, and quietly dangerous.
I don't remember the exact moment I crossed over. One breath I was telling myself I'd get up soon, that I'd only rest here for a minute. The next, the clock's thin ticking had faded into something softer, like it had slipped underwater, and the air felt heavier, warmer. The hangover pulled me down gently, like an undertow I didn't have the strength—or maybe the will—to fight. My eyes stayed closed. The mattress seemed to tilt just enough to make it easy, the dip where he lay holding me in place without touch.
I must have let out a breath I'd been holding for too long. The tension in my jaw eased. My hand slid a little closer to his side, stopping just short of the blanket's edge. It was enough. Enough to feel that quiet hum of someone else's presence.
I dreamed, though I couldn't tell you of what. Only that it was lightless and slow, like drifting through something thick and soundless.
When I stirred again, it was to the faint rustle of sheets. I didn't open my eyes—not yet. Some part of me knew if I did, the moment would dissolve. The air had shifted. Warmer near my cheek, cooler where it should have been warm. A hesitation in the air, as if someone were standing over me.
And then… nothing. The weight beside me lifted, quiet footsteps on the floor, a door easing shut. I don't know how long I lay there after that, clinging to the last traces of him in the space between breaths.
When I finally opened my eyes, the other half of the bed was empty. The sheets were still faintly creased where he'd been, but already the impression was fading. The blanket had been pulled back into some semblance of order, though not enough to hide that he'd left.
The room felt colder without him.
I sat there for a while, staring at the empty half of the bed like it might explain itself if I gave it enough time. But all it gave me was that hollow, low-grade churn in my chest. The kind you get when you realize you'd been hoping for something you never admitted you wanted.
It would have been easy—too easy—to tell myself it didn't matter, that I hadn't expected anything different. I had every excuse lined up already: I was drunk last night, I'd been a mess, he had no reason to linger. It should have been nothing.
But the human brain has a way of peeling excuses apart until all that's left is the rawness you were trying to avoid, and mine was doing it now.
I'd let myself get pulled into something—into him—without meaning to. No, that was a lie. I'd meant to. Not consciously, maybe, but some part of me had stepped toward him long before last night. Long before the liquor, the slurred confessions, the quiet way he'd let me come undone in the small hours.
I hated myself for it.
Not because I'd wanted to be close to him—that part I couldn't regret—but because I'd made it cheap. I'd wrapped it in alcohol and exhaustion, turned it into something that could be brushed off in daylight as nothing more than poor judgment.
And maybe that's all it had been for him.
I pictured him waking, looking down at me still half-curled toward where he'd been. Did he think I was pathetic? Did he think I'd regret it? Did he leave to spare me, or to spare himself?
The silence in the room felt like an answer, even though it wasn't.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, planting my feet on the floor. The wood was cold. I didn't stand yet—my body wasn't ready—but I stayed there, elbows on my knees, staring at my own hands. They looked the same as always, though I half-expected to see some faint trace of last night left on them.
And yet, I could still feel it. The way his presence had settled over me, not like a blanket, but like a kind of gravity—subtle but impossible to ignore. And now, without him here, everything felt lighter in the wrong way.
I got out of my bed, wanting to find him. To talk, maybe, while I was no longer tipsy. But he wasn't in his room, nor in the bathroom.
I found him in the kitchen.
The kitchen felt different after everyone else had left. Not quieter exactly—though the absence of voices did give the air a strange stillness—but denser, like the walls had pulled in closer, pressing me into the small rectangle of space between the counter and the fridge.
Haneul stood at the sink, sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms pale under the soft, gold light. Water streamed in an unbroken ribbon, catching the lamplight as it fell, pooling in the basin before disappearing down the drain. He moved without hurry, his wrists turning with a patience that made the act of washing dishes seem almost ceremonial. The dish soap's citrus scent clung to the steam curling around him, and I tried not to notice how domestic the sight was.
I swear I could feel it in my fingertips, in the shallow of my throat, in the way the silence between us thickened—not uncomfortable, but heavy in a way that made it hard to move. It was as if the world had narrowed down to this small rectangle of counter space, to the sound of water running over my hands, to the shape of him beside me.
My gaze wandered—stupidly, recklessly—to the shape of his shoulders under the loose hang of his sweater. The way the lamplight overhead caught the damp sheen on his skin where the water had splashed. I wondered if he even realized how carefully he moved, like every plate deserved to be handled as if it might shatter.
He didn't say anything for a while, just worked. The sound of porcelain against porcelain was soft, deliberate.
"Pass me that bowl?" he said finally, voice quiet, like he was only half-aware he'd spoken.
I reached for it and held it out. My fingers grazed his. It was nothing. Nothing, and yet my pulse still ticked faster. The warmth of his skin lingered on mine even after I let go.
I told myself I was imagining it; the slow pause before he took the bowl from me. The way our hands stayed too close for a second too long. My mind was probably making something out of nothing, projecting, filling in gaps where there was no real story.
He rinsed the bowl, water spilling over the rim, soap swirling like ghostly lace before vanishing down the drain. I caught myself staring at the angle of his jaw as he tilted his head toward the spray. I busied myself with the rice cooker, scraping the last grains into a container. The sound of the spoon against the metal was too loud in the stillness, so I slowed down.
"Do you ever get tired of doing dishes?" I asked, mostly to fill the air, partly to see if his voice would shift when speaking to me.
He didn't look at me when he answered. "No. It's easy. Doesn't ask for much."
There was something in the way he said it, something that made me want to press further, peel back the words to see what lived beneath them. But I didn't. Some silences felt safer left intact. So I bit back a question I didn't know how to phrase, whether he preferred things that didn't ask for much because he couldn't give much, or because he simply didn't want to.
The counter was almost clear now. I wiped it with a damp cloth, crumbs collecting into a damp little heap in my palm. He reached for another dish, and when I handed it to him, our fingers met again.
This time the contact was firmer, more deliberate—or maybe that was just what I wanted to believe. It felt like we were both holding onto the same moment, unwilling to let it pass. But then he let go, and the moment unraveled as quickly as it had formed. I dried the dishes he passed back to me, stacking them in the cupboard above. Sometimes our shoulders brushed, and each time, I couldn't tell if it was by accident or some wordless testing of boundaries.
The whole time, my head kept arguing with itself; It's just cleanup after dinner, so stop reading into it. But then, why does it feel like something is waiting to happen?
If anyone walked in, they'd see nothing, just two people working in tandem. But my pulse was too quick for this to be nothing. The air between us felt too taut, stretched thin over some quiet understanding I couldn't quite catch.
The last dish was finally rinsed. He turned off the water, and the silence that followed was louder than the running tap had been. I snapped the final lid onto the last container and slid it into the fridge.
The seal gave a soft sigh as the door shut.
Neither of us spoke. And yet, as I stood there, drying my damp hands on a towel, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had been said—just not in words. But for the life of me, I could decipher anything, if there was something at all.